


Runaround Romantic

by ellebb



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingering, Friends With Benefits, Smut, capital D capital S, caps caps caps all about them caps, slightly canon divergent, wth where did all this plot come from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7189811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebb/pseuds/ellebb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Hancock (and his people) thought they had one up on Evelyn, and the one time the mayor actually just evened the playing field.</p><p>Evelyn makes the work she's doing for Hancock complicated: what with that face and those legs and her putting him on a 'tab.'  But she's enjoying herself, he's enjoying himself, so what could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Got a light?

Evelyn left the Old State House, and lingered on the step. She patted her pockets down, letting her eyes slowly roll over Goodneighbor’s main square, lined with the Rexford, the Memory Den, and the squats of various drifters. She found her pack of cigarettes and idly tapped it against her palm. She missed her old cigarette case: rose-gold, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a gift from her sister, and engraved with a sweet message. It had been in her purse when the bombs fell, left on the dresser, so who knew what scavver had made off with it.

Still, just the paper pack had its uses. She tap-tap-tapped the cigarettes against her palm, eyeing the activity of Goodneighbor’s populace. A member of the Neighborhood Watch was turning on the streetlights against the deepening shadows; the close set of the buildings and the built up perimeter of defensive walls made sunlight a fleeting commodity. But this time was clearly the beginning of business hours. People were slowly drifting toward The Third Rail. Those without the caps were clustered around the barrel fires, passing around a canister of jet. Those with different poisons were filing into the Memory Den. The prostitutes were lounging against the Rexford’s facade.

Evelyn surveyed this all, tap-tap-tapping her cigarette pack. A step away, a member of the Watch was standing guard. She side-eyed him. This was the one she was looking for. The quiet one, that never called her ‘toots.’ Not that she disliked being called toots, but she was aiming for something else right now.

She turned to him, rolling a thin white cigarette between her fingers.

“Got a light?” she asked.

He looked at her, the brim of his hat casting his face in shadow. Ghoul, between average and tall, tan suit, submachine gun. Just like the others, but a little less swagger, a little more scrutiny. It was subtle, but it was there. He removed a hand from his gun, pulling a lighter from a pocket on the inside of his jacket.

Evelyn bent toward him, holding the cigarette between her lips. The little flame caught as she glanced up at him. It was the oldest trick in the book, and she was pleased to see his dark eyes unaffected, his thin mouth set stoically. He flipped the lighter closed.

“Heard you were sniffing around Pickman Gallery,” he said.

She blew smoke to the side, cocking the hand that held the cigarette.

“I was. And now I’m back.”

“So?”

Evelyn tilted her head, smiling a little.

“So? Isn’t this a conversation you should be having with your boss?”

He eyed her, and turned to survey the rest of the town. He shrugged.

They were silent for a moment, and she smoked.

“How is he as a boss, anyway?” she finally asked.

The guard didn’t react. Didn’t seem to react anyway. Hard to tell with that hat shadowing his eyes.

“Benefits? 401k?” she poked again.

His mouth sharpened a little.

“It’s a job.”

She rolled the cigarette between her fingers. It was only a little burned down. Evelyn dropped it, still full of plenty of draws, and ground it out with her boot. She pulled her pack back out, taking out another cigarette. She stepped closer to the guard.

He jumped a little, tensing. Ignoring the tightening of his gnarled hands on his submachine gun, she reached into the interior of his jacket, into the pocket above his heart. She fished out the lighter, flicking the top open.

In place of the lighter, she had left a stack of caps.

A little sleight of hand she’d used on a maître d' or two on date nights with Nate. And before that, bouncers when she’d been underage.  She loved that moment when they realized the dry, crinkling sound at their chest was a crisp new Benjamin Franklin. Or that clinking was a stack of caps. The look in their eyes was priceless.

Evelyn lit a new cigarette, and held out the lighter. The ghoul frowned. But eventually he did take back the lighter, the ruined lines of his face set deeper, uneasy. He gazed around the street, staring at a patrolling watchman.

“Hancock done right by you?” she asked, smiling.

“What do you mean?” he said gruffly.

“I mean, he’s not the sort of… _politician_ to take his constituency for a ride, is he?”

The guard stared at her.

“Maybe he’s too heavy-handed for a soft settler,” he said coolly. “But for everyone else -- for everyone that would sooner get a swatter to the face than a stool at Takahashi’s -- Hancock takes care of his own.”

Evelyn considered him. “And how does he make that distinction? How do you join his club?”

“This ain’t a fucking club, lady. It’s Goodneighbor. You mind your own business, you don’t fuck shit up, you do as Hancock says. And you’re golden.”

“I got an interesting job from Whitechapel Charlie the other night,” Evelyn said quickly, without preamble, on the tail-end of the ghoul’s statements. “Aren’t the Triggermen _golden_ anymore?”

The guard turned from her.

“I think this conversation is over,” he said.

Evelyn didn’t move away, though. She took a couple more drags off her cigarette. Then, she pulled another bundle of caps from a pocket. She tossed them at the guard, high enough that he would catch them on instinct. The ghoul stared at the caps in his palm, and at her.

“Take them,” she said, smiling. “And buy the mayor a drink when you tell him I’ve been asking nosy questions and trying to bribe his men.”

He put on a scowl to hide his surprise.

Yeah, she’d chosen well. She’d seen him around: the quiet, watchful type. The type most likely to be reporting about his quiet, watchful observations to Hancock. The type to be sincerely loyal, and not susceptible to greed. But careful enough to let his boss handle manipulators. Well, let the mayor _handle_ her. She’d love to see him try.

Evelyn mock-saluted and leisurely strolled off into the good Goodneighbor night.

-

When she saw the bar, she paused.

“What’s your drink, MacCready?” Evelyn asked.

The merc stopped behind her, where they lingered on the stairs descending into The Third Rail.

“Huh? Uh, beer’s good.”

“Take a seat at a table. I’ll have one sent to you.”

She felt him hesitate at her shoulder, so she turned around. She gentled her expression, formed it to a friendly reassurance. He’d only been in her employ for a week now, and they were still working out the kinks in their relationship. And it was important that they establish trust; nothing was more important in a firefight. Besides, being partial to sniping herself, Evelyn had plans for MacCready and their partnership.

MacCready relaxed and shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Evelyn nodded. She took the last few steps slowly, studying the bar. Too early in the day for real business. Even so, the reclaimed underground station was conspicuously empty. The musty shadows were dim and quiet, the tables utterly silent. But Charlie was hovering behind the bar top, clanking and whirring and hissing. And a very distinctive figure slouched on a stool.

Evelyn strolled to the counter, ignoring this figure.

“A gin and a beer, Charlie.”

Evelyn reached into her pocket.

“It’s on the house,” Charlie said, his motorized arms clacking among the bottles and glasses.

A large leather purse, heavy and clinking, slid down the counter top. It stopped against Evelyn’s hand pressed to the weathered, thinly varnished bar.

“And that’s for sweeping out the warehouses,” Hancock said. “ _And_ the Pickman job.”

Evelyn finally turned to the mayor. He sat there with that easy smile that said ‘ _No, Finn. I ain’t gonna stab you. Whatdya take me for?_ ’ She sat down, an empty stool between them, and considered him. Mayor John Hancock. A seedy old colonial frock, a tricorn almost as ridiculous as her own, that ridged, ruggedly textured skin. The one-liners, the swagger, that fucking smirk. That thin, thin, thin body. Like a whip. Or a knife’s edge. Svelte. God, what would he look like with her thighs wrapped around him?

Shit, what was it about that certain brand of weasley, greasy men that could set you on fire just as easily as the beefiest war hero? He certainly was no Nate. Not in the looks department, but sometimes when he eyed her, running his gaze over every inch of her… She got a little nostalgic. It was painful, but it was _fun_ , too. Fun was not what she would describe her life since she’d crawled out of Vault 111. So she was enjoying this game she was starting. And she sure as hell was going to finish it, too.

Evelyn slid the purse back. It gently _thumped_ against Hancock’s forearm resting on the bar top.

“Ice in that gin. And in the Mayor’s whiskey,” she told Charlie, reaching into her own pockets and throwing down enough caps for both MacCready and herself, and for the ice she just ordered. Refrigeration was dicey in the wasteland, and ice was always extra.

Hancock eyed her. And Whitechapel Charlie, for all his ornery brusqueness, hesitated as his boss’s pitch black eyes turned blank and his expression fell from its cocksure pedestal. His thin mouth hovered at the edge of annoyance. Evelyn put on the benign smile she had once reserved for certain trust fund baby bosses with glass egos that couldn’t tell a fiduciary duty from their assholes. Hancock leaned back, giving her a once-over. He nodded at the robot.

“You heard the lady. And I think that beer’s for MacCready over there.”

If Charlie could shrug, he would. “As you say, Guv’nor.”

He took the hint; after clinking the ice cubes into their drinks, he hovered away.

“You know,” Hancock said, when they were alone. “That wasn’t exactly a charity job ya did. Not something the Minutemen can notch their belts over. And I don’t like to be in the red with nobody.”

Evelyn sipped at the white sear of her drink, her eyes sparkling. “The City of Goodneighbor has all its books in order, then?”

“I’m _very_ fiscally responsible,” Hancock said, his smirk creeping back and stirring her pulse. “Even with beautiful women. _Especially_ beautiful women. A lady should never be left wanting.”

Making a dismissive sound, she shook her head. “Now that’s a claim I don’t know you can deliver on. May have to audit that one.”

He threw back a generous swig of whiskey. And it heated and deepened his rasp as he said, “That something you’re good at, then?”

“I think you’ll find I’m skilled in many things.”

She smiled. Pulling out a cigarette, she pointedly looked at him. There was a shift in his facial muscles that would have been an amused crinkle in his nose if he had one. He obliged her, expertly flipping open a lighter with the same nimbleness he had with that knife. She leaned toward him, staring back into his eyes. What was good for the guard was good for the boss; it was only fair, after all.

Through her lashes, she studied him. Surprisingly expressive, for all that he lacked eyebrows and had deep blackhole eyes. And he studied her right back. She knew what he saw: a clean face, black cat eye cleaved to upswept eyes, long legs, a ten outta ten face (not to toot her own horn, but _toot motherfuckers toot-toot_ ). Yeah, she knew what he saw. He stared and her pulse jumped.

Time to rein this back in a bit.

Evelyn pulled back, took a long drag. She exhaled white smoke and let her gaze cut through it. She pointed at the leather purse of caps still sitting beside the mayor.

“You keep that,” she said. “I want payment. But your tab’s not deep enough for it yet.”

Hancock’s fingers tapped the counter top, eyeing her again. “You didn’t want the caps for the Pickman thing. You don’t want the caps for the clean-up job. How far you gonna jerk me around?”

Evelyn lowered her eyelids and her voice’s timbre to a purr. “Until I get exactly what I want.”

He played with his empty whiskey glass, tilting and twirling it. He stared at her and her conceited posture, shoulders thrust back and spine curved. His breath, hot with liquor and something more acidic, brushed her cheek when he abruptly leaned toward her. Their eyes met, only inches apart.

“Yeah, you look like a woman that’s used to getting what she wants. That face and those legs. But I don’t know if you’ve heard -- I’m John fucking Hancock, Mayor of Goodneighbor. You think it’s gonna be that easy to use me?”

Evelyn sighed, chuckling. She closed the gap between them by another inch. Her own breath, laden with gin and tobacco, caressed Hancock’s face.

“Oh, no -- I’m not looking to use you. I’m looking for you to use _me_.” She smiled. “And you have plans, don’t you? To _use me_.”

Hancock’s eyelids fluttered and his breath stuttered. She stifled her glee. She was seeing the whites of his eyes (metaphorically), but it would still be a while yet until she’d pull the trigger.

“Such a shame, you know,” she tutted. “All those pretty pinstriped suits, covered in blood now. Must have had friends and relations, those boys. Who’s gonna be the one to break the sad news, huh?”

She batted her eyelashes.

Hancock exhaled. He leaned back, his razor thin lips pulling back into a smile and his eyes sparkling.

“You’re somethin’, aren’t you?” he said. “They couldn’t print enough warning labels to cover what you’re struttin’ around here with. Charlie!”

He called over to the Mr. Handy hovering in the corner where MacCready sat, chatting with the merc. The mayor also jumped up to bend over the bar. Evelyn admired the thin rear presented to her as Hancock scrambled with the clinking glass bottles behind the counter.

He emerged with a bottle of whiskey and slung himself a generous shot.

“Another glass on sweetness over here. I’m running my debt up with her,” he said loudly, winking at Evelyn.

She smiled. Then she copied him, stepping up on the rungs of her stool to reach behind the bar for the gin. Giving the mayor his own show. She plopped back on her seat, matching his broad grin and unscrewing the liquor.

“Don’t be so eager to find out how I’m going to make you pay me back. It may hurt.”

He laughed low and raspy. “No one told you? Mixing pleasure and pain is my hobby.”

Evelyn laughed.

They toasted to that. And they drank out the afternoon, waving back over MacCready and Charlie from the kid’s table. Some signal must have reached Ham, because the bar was soon littered with other drifters and scavvers. And Evelyn spent the rest of her day in an alcohol blur, trading playful threats and innuendos with the mayor.

-

“I don’t care what you offer; I’m not giving you my chemist,” Evelyn said, her eyes glinting as she flicked her black hair.

Hancock paused. He considered himself a quick learner, and gods knew he’d been an eager student, but he was still trying figure out the woman’s boundaries and how far he could push. Before she… well, shit, who knew what she’d do if he really pissed her off. He probably wouldn’t ever know; it’d be some dark, quiet night with a .50 caliber bullet through the back of his skull. Good night, Mr. Mayor.

Still, the danger was most of the fun. And those hints of dark golden skin, smooth and lovely, and those sculpted thighs, and the proud face that knew it’s own worth -- that was most of the fun, too. Shit, it was all great.

This thing they had going -- him giving her his unpleasant, messy work and her putting off payment until a later time and it getting very confusing about who was stringing along who -- it was hitting Hancock in all the exciting places. But when it came to business, Evelyn was sober as that prick over in Diamond City’s mayoral office. Might not seem like it at first, what with those beguiling smiles and the flirting, but she took caps seriously.

So maybe that was why he _should_ be more alarmed about the state of the accounts between them. Still. The flirting was real nice…

Hancock put on his winningest smile. “Fine, fine. Can’t blame a guy; that latest batch of jet you sold Fred was a helluva ride. Smooth, too. What about a deal for distribution rights? You’re a busy woman. Pushing chems can’t be your biggest priority.”

Evelyn finally smiled. She tapped her cigarette.

“We’ll see. After you pay me for the other work I’ve been doing for you.”

“And when’s that gonna be, huh?”

She chuckled and shook a finger at him. “Nice try, but you’ll just have to wait.”

She stood, grinding out her cigarette and smiling at him.

“Now, like you said, I’m a busy woman.”

His eyes ran up her body as she stood. She ran around his city in a pre-war military-grade jumpsuit, might’ve been a flight suit or something. It was olive green, and pulled against those legs, flaring loose around her upper half. Underneath, she wore a collared shirt, sometimes unbuttoned enough to get a tease of skin, but never enough to see cleavage. Maybe she didn’t have much. But the real kicker was the zipper on the jumpsuit. It ran from the lapels _all_ the way down to her crotch. _Fuck_ , what he wouldn’t suffer to tug that zipper down oh-so-slowly.

Was she pausing to let him look? Hancock’s eyes went back to her face, her eyes unreadable and only a smidgen of smirk at her lips. She turned, and his gaze followed her as she stepped around the coffee table set between his two sofas. And as she strolled across his office on the second floor of the Old State House. But she was stopped in the doorway when she met Fahrenheit on her way in.

Shit.

He knew his bodyguard’s feelings about Evelyn. _Trouble_ , she says, but anyone with eyes could see that. Kinda the point, really. Truthfully, his soft life of mayoral duties was getting old. Evelyn was the right kind of woman at the right time, but if push came to shove, he didn’t want to have to choose between her and Fahrenheit. A sort of awkward social confrontation he didn’t care for.

Not necessary, apparently. If the friendly small talk the women were exchanging was anything to tell by. Then again...

Fahrenheit was eyeing Hancock. Shit. She turned back to Evelyn.

“You ever play chess? Sometimes you have to sacrifice a piece to keep the game going.”

Fahrenheit drew on a cigarette thoughtfully, like a scholar or a saint. Evelyn smiled and cocked her head.

“I never took you for a soft woman, Fahrenheit,” Evelyn said lightly.

Aw, shiiit.

Fahrenheit’s hand unconsciously smooshed her cigarette as she stared at the other woman. Hancock quickly cleared his throat to insert himself into the conversation.

“You talkin’ about Fahrenheit here? The one with the minigun?” he laughed.

“The very same,” Evelyn said to him. But she kept eyes locked with Fahrenheit’s. “The thing about chess is that you don’t let your opponent know three moves ahead that you’re taking their piece. And I know you’re no idiot.”

Fahrenheit shifted. She had her poker face on, but Hancock knew her well enough to tell that she was brewing a storm behind the mask.

“So,” Evelyn continued, rolling over her words deliberately. “The only explanation is that you’re trying to _warn_ me.”

She smiled at the bodyguard. “Thanks, sweetheart. But I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing.”

Fahrenheit’s brow twitched. She dropped her cigarette and ground it into the ragged floorboards of the State House. Then she stepped up to Evelyn, cocking her chin up. She was taller than the Minutemen’s general, and stared down her nose at her.

“Then let me give you another warning,” Fahrenheit said. “People with clever tongues without the sense to curb ‘em don’t last long in this town.”

Evelyn maintained that toothy, perfect smile inches from the other’s scowl. “You know, you have such pretty eyes. Such a pretty face.” Her voice was breathy and husky and promising.

Fahrenheit -- despite being, ya know, _Fahrenheit_ \-- was taken aback. Her cheek twitched, and she leaned back in confusion. Evelyn saw the opening and closed for the kill.

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she cajoled. “Nothing wrong with a soft heart. And it’s hardly your fault. What can the employee do if the boss sets a certain example?”

Hancock jumped at his sudden inclusion into the situation. Shit, this kinda tension didn’t pair well with mentats.

“What-” he started.

“I’ve been hearing some things,” Evelyn said, glancing at him. “About the Triggermen I took care of. Nasty lot they were. And -- well. I’ll keep you guessing. Point being, I like where this boat’s going, and I’m not looking to rock it.”

Fahrenheit backed up, though she was still frowning. But that was really just normal Fahrenheit-face.

Evelyn continued, “It’s admirable to have a tender heart. Right, Mayor? Aren’t you _soft_ , Han _cock_?”

She rolled that word -- _cock_ \-- around her mouth, drawing it out from tip to end, holding it hostage between her lush lips. Making him want that mouth around his actual cock, that perfect hair a ruin in his fist.

Hancock thought he should reply but was struggling to find something witty to say.

Evelyn took that as her cue to leave, nodding at him with a smirk. She winked at Fahrenheit before whisking out the door.

The silence drew out in the wake of her departure. Hancock sat on his ruined sofa, caught up in dark eyes and long legs. Fahrenheit still stood in the doorway, frowning.

Hancock said loudly, “I called dibs.”

Fahrenheit whirled on him. She scrambled at the side table near her hand, picked up an ashtray, and flung it at his head.

“ _No one gives a shit, you flaming asshat_ \--”

-

He had it. He finally had the _thing_ that would really rattle that woman. Well, not _really_ really. More like make her wobble a bit up there on her pedestal of pride. Put a little kink in that strut of hers.

Evelyn did right by him with the Bobbi thing. Saw it coming from a mile away, but that goes without saying. Hancock saw it coming, too. The only one who _didn’t_ was Bobbi. And now, even Fahrenheit couldn’t fault Evelyn for being detrimental to the delicate peace of fair Goodneighbor. But, boy, did Evelyn rub it in with her mock dismay at being put between Hancock and Bobbi. Running that tab he had up and up and up.

She still wouldn’t let him in on her big demands. But he almost hoped it would keep on like this. This mental tit-for-tat was driving him wild; almost as much as his inappropriate daytime fantasies and lurid nighttime dreams. She was good at stoking those fires, too. The innuendo, the arched brow, the all-knowing smirk.

Still, he had the feeling that she wouldn’t handle what he had in store next with quite the same grace.

Hancock stifled the urge to giggle to himself. He sat at the rickety little table just inside Daisy’s doorway, and she looked up at him from behind the counter where she was taking inventory. She gave him a _look_.

“Don’t care for loiterers in my shop,” Daisy said dryly.

“You’re paying rent to me,” Hancock said. “Technically my shop.”

“Oooh, yessir. Your shop, your street, your town. All the people belong to you,” she said lightly.

Hancock frowned. Then he shook his head at her. “Nuh-unh. You ain’t bringing me down today.”

Daisy looked back down to her notes, scribbling. “Just saying, you got your own office. Strange place to hold business, here.”

“Ain’t business I’m waitin’ on,” he said, leaning forward to look around the street outside. Nothing but the Watch and gratuitous sunshine.

Then she was striding around the corner, anger and outrage etched into her face. Making that beautiful face imperious. All arches and unblemished gilding. Yeah, she was pissed. She’d had a short meeting early this morning in the Memory Den, then she’d gone out into the Back Bay area -- Hubris Comics. She’d spent her lunch hour cleaning out ferals. And back to Goodneighbor, the Memory Den. And then -- then, she’d stormed out, looking for him in the Old State House. Discovering the mayor out for the day, Evelyn finally came to find Hancock sitting with a smirk in Daisy’s shop.

She must have nursed that anger something fierce on her stroll to Daisy’s Discounts. She looked like fury personified. Yeah, he’d ruffled her feathers.

“Ain’t business he’s waitin’ on,” Daisy said. “Yeah, right.”

“You,” Evelyn said. She was staring at Hancock, her voice low and rough and nowhere near her usual control.

MacCready trailed in behind her, lingering outside the shop door. He looked awkward, like he very much wanted to be elsewhere. But that leash lined with caps tying him to Evelyn’s heel kept dragging him on.

A bundle of black and gray cloth landed on the table in front of Hancock.

“Fucking hilarious, Hancock,” Evelyn said, pointing at that bundle. “Real _fucking_ hilarious.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said innocently, smiling an innocent smile.

He picked up the thrown material, unfolding it. A coat -- ancient, pre-war, but still in good condition for all that. Long and black with gray lapels. And an exact replica of the Silver Shroud’s. Immortalised in those ancient texts, the comic books.

Hancock looked up with a shit-eating grin.

“Nice coat you got here,” he said.

“It’s a _costume_ ,” Evelyn snapped, a snotty edge creeping into her voice. “A _fucking comic book hero costume_.”

She was flushed, rattled. Yep, yep. Hancock had picked his angle well. Evelyn was always perfectly composed: the carefully coiffed hair, the makeup, the studied gestures, the way she tilts her face to its best advantage. Running around dressed like a superhero and shootin’ up arch villains was not high on her list of things she would like to do fucking ever. So Hancock would certainly _never_ encourage Kent Connolly to pay Evelyn to retrieve the Silver Shroud costume, give him the caps for the job and a list of ne’er-do-wells that were becoming a big fat fucking thorn in the mayor’s ass.

Hancock would _never_.

Daisy leaned over her counter to stare at the coat. “Has Kent seen that? He’s a big fan, you know.”

Evelyn glanced at her. Her indignant expression faltered, and guilt crept in around her eyes. Hancock imagined she was seeing visions of big, sparkling puppy-dog eyes. A sweet smile that made chubby little angels sing. And then Evelyn’s eyes refocused on Hancock. Uh-oh. That edge of hers came back with a vengeance.

“You don’t _have_ to wear it, ya know,” Hancock coughed.

“Of course I do,” Evelyn said sweetly, letting all hostility drop from her voice. “I can’t disappoint Kent.”

Leaning in the doorway, MacCready sighed. Here she goes again. Daisy stared around.

“What’s going on?” she asked, frowning. “And why’s it happening in my store?”

“Daisy,” Evelyn said, turning to her. “Can I borrow your room upstairs?”

The other woman blinked. “Sure, I guess.”

“I’ll just be a moment.”

And off she went; plucking the offending coat from Hancock’s hands and flowing up the stairs.

MacCready sighed. Again. He glanced at the mayor, who was frowning in general, and then the merc patted down his pockets. He pulled a heavy, clinking and familiar pouch from a pocket. Hancock caught his own purse tossed to him by MacCready.

“Boss says that’s for you,” he grumbled, squinting. “It’s no skin off my nose -- uh, pardon the expression -- I mean, I’m still getting paid. But she’s sticking her neck out there, sticking out _my_ neck, and doesn’t want the caps? I really don’t get what’s going on here.”

“You ‘n me both, brother,” Hancock sighed. But he tucked the purse back into his coat anyway.

Then a set of low heels was tapping down the stairs. And through the gaps in the stairs Hancock was glimpsing those heels attached to bare, shapely calves. The hem of that black coat swirling around infuriatingly tiny peeks of naked knees and thighs. And Evelyn turned the corner around the staircase, wearing what appeared to be the coat and underneath -- her birthday suit.

The tie around her waist was pulled tight, firmly in place, but the hem swished about flirtatiously and the bare expanse at the chest was much, much more than a mere wink. He’d been more focused on her lower half before; her usual jumpsuit clung to her slender legs and tiny ass, hanging baggy around her chest with a collared shirt buttoned high. But now he could see that her tits weren’t anything to sneeze at. Tempting, dark shadows curved around her breast bone, hinting at luscious forms.

Evelyn flowed through the room on those little heels like they were the toughest, most comfortable boots. She didn’t spare Hancock a single glance, adjusting the Silver Shroud fedora on her head.

“Daisy, I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed a pair of your shoes,” she said, flicking a bundle of dark curls out of her face. “And I don’t know if I’ll return them in one piece, so here’s some caps ahead of time.”

Evelyn pressed a bundle into Daisy’s hand, smiling back at her bewildered expression. She turned to MacCready,who was staring at her with something between shock and resignation.

“Ready to hit the road again, MacCready?” she asked brightly.

The merc rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure, sure. You’re the boss.”

He glanced at Hancock, sitting silent and dumbfounded. But Evelyn ignored the mayor and strode out the doorway without a single look back. MacCready sighed. And followed after her.

“You know what’s great? Normal jobs. Where we get paid. And we wear pants,” he complained.

“Can’t be picky. What the client wants, the client gets.”

“ _What kinda client_ \--”

MacCready’s voice trailed off into the distance.

Hancock was still rooted to the spot. But he sat back when he realized he had craned his neck to follow after the first look he had ever gotten of those naked legs. He sat back, kneading a crick in his neck. A prickle running through his skin told him Daisy was staring at him pointedly.

“Don’t start,” Hancock sighed. He rummaged in his pockets for some jet, and grimaced when he felt the purse that MacCready’d given back to him.

He pulled himself up and ambled out the shop. There was a bottle of brown and a stash of jet in his office calling his name.

Daisy snorted. “Ain’t business he’s waitin’ on, he says.”


	2. There's Always Another Day or Somethin' Like That

Big bad Sinjin was dead.  Long live-- aw, fuck that.  Fuck all the Sinjins in the world.  People who used their strength to make life hell for weaker folks had no business existing on this earth.  Fuck ‘em and piss on their graves.

Hancock had his feet up on his desk and his hands tucked behind his neck.  He stared at the ceiling with a canister of jet dangling between his teeth.  He wiggled the jet around idly.  It was making his incisors ache a little; the thing was full.

He wanted to empty the whole damn thing, but he was in that kind of sour mood that promised a bad trip if he did.

Rumbling under his breath a little, Hancock spat the canister out, and it clattered around on the floor.

Sinjin was three days dead, but the woman who killed him had yet to darken his doorstep.  She had some nerve: walkin’ around his town with that mystifying swagger in her hips, getting into trouble with that silver tongue, twirling his people about her little finger.  Making him want to sink his claws into that perfect, trim little gift of an ass.   Bite every inch of those legs, lick them ‘til she cried and watch the contortions of that face of hers when he when he finally got his long-suffering dick in her.

She had some nerve.  Getting into his head like that and not showing her face for three whole days after the last job was done.

He’d been vaguely worried she and MacCready had gotten into real trouble; he knew she and that aim of hers could take care of themselves, but it only took one mistake out there.  Then a merchant stopping by this morning had mentioned seeing her in Diamond City.

Now, Evelyn wasn’t most people.  Most people with debt owed to them would come running for their caps.  She had ingenuity and probably a dozen money-making schemes all over the Commonwealth.  And the deal she had with him wasn’t exactly a standard transaction.  So it’s not like she was fuckin’ with the fine print by not rushing to see him.

And it’s not like he had a claim on her or anything.  Despite his suspicions that what she was doing to him was half business and half legitimate, honest interest in him, none of it meant he could really claim any demands on her time.  She could spread her attention wherever she damn pleased.  And if she deigned to show a burned up ol’ raisin a few smiles, then he should thank whatever god phoned that one in.  ‘Cause he could have a smoothskin or two if it struck his fancy, but rarely of this caliber.

Naw, it wasn’t the business or some bullshit jealousy that was making him pissy.  It was something… something.  Fuck.

Hancock frowned.  Frustrated, he rocked his chair back and forth loudly, and he kicked a bunch of shit off the desk.  Papers fluttered off ineffectually, a pen rattled on the floorboards, a tin of mentats spilled open all over the fucking place.  Fahrenheit spared him a glance.  She was going over some reports, taking advantage of the day’s waning light.  It had been a hot one, and the heat was lingering.  It irritated his irritation, and irritated Fahrenheit’s irritation at _his_ irritation.  She went back to her report, though.

Bernice and Six-Fingers were laughing it up about something below his window outside.  He wanted to yell at them.

Shit, yell at them?  Who the fuck was he?  Some kind of captain of the no-fun police?  Or even-- had he become _the man_?

Hancock groaned aloud, loudly.

“Christ,” Fahrenheit snapped. “If you’re gonna bitch about it, why don’t you go find her yourself?”

His feet dropped from the desk in shock.  He stared at his bodyguard.

“Fahrenheit, you’re an angel,” Hancock croaked. “Why didn’t I figure it out before?”

He jumped up -- right at the moment when a knock on the open door frame sank in the hot, dusty air of the room.  And there she was: Evelyn stood looking at him, leaning in the door.   She glanced at Fahrenheit, exchanged respectful nods.  Her posture was a little less curved, a little less brazen.  Her small, well-formed lips were pulled into a smile, but not the smirk he’d been craving.  And the arch of her brow said business, not pleasure, would be the rule of the day.  

“Well, look who it is,” Hancock said. “My crime-fighting knight in Shroud armor.”

Evelyn snorted. “That’s the last time I pull that stunt.  I had blood in crevices I didn’t even know existed.”

“Yeah?  You might still have some.  I could check,” Hancock said, low and raspy.  And by check he meant lick every crevice and orifice ‘til they dripped obscenely.

Evelyn smiled, but made no reply as she dragged a chair in front of his desk.  He was still standing behind it, but sat when she sat.  She crossed her legs, letting her combat-booted foot bob like it wore an elegant heel, and she pulled out a cigarette.  The fact she ignored his offered light for her own lighter (he’d been thinking she didn’t even carry one) made him realize she really was here for business.

Evelyn blew smoke, considering him.

“So, I killed off Sinjin and his gang.  No pushovers, that was easily a thousand cap job,” she said.

Across the room, Fahrenheit put down her reports and sat up to watch them.

Evelyn held up her fingers, counting. “The Pickman info, the Triggermen, Bobbi -- all in all, you owe me around twenty-five hundred caps.”

Fahrenheit made a disgruntled noise.  Hancock said nothing, leaning back in his chair and holding Evelyn’s stare.  She took a draw off her cigarette.  Her eyes were steady and stirred his gut, but he kept his face blank.  He hoped so, anyway.  She never failed to excite him; whether it was the coy winks or the confident way she could roll into a room or the hurtin’ her eyes promised if she was denied what she was owed.  It all gave him the pleasant warmth of stoked desire.

Evelyn stared at him while she said loudly, “If you have a problem with my estimate, let’s hear it.”

Fahrenheit opened her mouth, and then paused to look at Hancock.  He looked back, impassive.  His bodyguard sat back silently with a stony expression.  Fahrenheit’s hand was in most of the running of Goodneighbor, but in the end Hancock was the boss.

The boss, huh?  He wasn’t so sure he much deserved the position anymore.  Silencing Fahrenheit with a look, having Evelyn clean up his dirty work.  He frowned, looking down at the grimy surface of his desk.

“It doesn’t much matter, anyway,” Evelyn was saying. “I don’t want the caps.  Caps, I can get anywhere.  Goodneighbor has a unique resource I’ve had my eye on.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“Goodneighbor flesh.  I’ve been _coveting_ Goodneighbor flesh.”

Hancock snapped back up.  Was she flirting with him again?  Her eyes demanded respect, but her mouth _might’ve_ had a hint of assholery.  Evelyn cocked her head and held up her counting fingers again.

“The Lee Brothers.  Six-Fingers.  And Hiraj.”

She paused. “I want you to transfer their contracts to me.”

Hancock stared at her.

Behind her, Fahrenheit stood, a knee-jerk reaction, and stared at the back of her head.  He had no doubt that the back of those glossy black curls was nowhere near as intimidating as the steely look in her black eyes.  Evelyn calmly smoked.

Fuck, no wonder she never took any caps from him.  And no wonder she wanted him on a ‘tab.’  And ran that tab skyhigh.  She was right; caps -- you could get anywhere, but a reliable gun at your six was always a pain in the ass to find.  Little Lee and Big Lee were pre-war ghouls who’d seen anything the wasteland could throw at ‘em; they’d even been so far as the NCR.  Six-Fingers had six fingers on one hand and a mountain of muscle strapped to his body.  If the sight of him didn’t crush your desire to fuck with him, then his fist would finish the job.  Hiraj was another ghoul; taciturn and vicious with anything that even vaguely resembled a weapon.  They were all skilled, reliable, and loyal (at least he’d woken up this morning thinkin’ they were loyal).

Four of his best men, gone just like that?

Hancock coughed, leaning forward. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?  I paid an _embarrassing_ amount for Hiraj.”

“And worth every one of those twelve-hundred caps,” Evelyn said, her voice hardening as she leaned forward as well. “From the rumors, anyway.  But a thirty-six month term, and there’s only eighteen left on your contract with him.  A six hundred cap deal.”

She emphasized her words with violent little gestures with her cigarette, laying out the facts about the Lees and Six-Fingers, too.  And this was not the most opportune time to be having these ideas, but Hancock would really, really like to lick her boots while she gave him the look she was giving him now.

But shit, what the hell?  A fucking rat couldn’t take a dump in his town without his knowing about it; he prided himself on having tabs on everything in Goodneighbor, so how the hell did she figure out about the details of these contracts without him hearing about it?  What else did she know?

“ _And_ I want a non-compete clause,” Evelyn added.

Hancock stared. “What?”

“No poaching them until the old contracts go up,” she said. “You can try then, but they won’t be going anywhere.  Not with the terms I’ll offer them.”

The expression Fahrenheit had on could make brahmin milk curdle.  She’d been silent, but now she cut in.

“Little Lee, Six-Fingers, and Tomás.  Not Big Lee or Hiraj.”

Evelyn shifted in her seat and tapped ashes into a tray on Hancock’s desk.

“Both Lees.”

A pause.

“Six-Fingers.”

Another pause.

“Hiraj.”

Her voice was not angry, not nervous or unsure, not blustering.  Like she was reading from a dictionary, cool as that first inhale of jet.

Hancock leaned back, exhaling.  He and Evelyn stared at each other, Fahrenheit in the background like a blooming, looming rad storm.  But her tension paled in comparison to the taut pressure of his pitch eyes meeting Evelyn’s arched, upswept gaze.  The entire room faded out while Hancock watched the tiny movements of her face; the shifting of muscles over thin cheekbones, the rounded nose, the lips of his dreams.  She breathed and the beautiful composition rippled.  He was afraid if he blinked he’d wake up to find the greatest dream he’d ever had slip through his fingers like smoke.

Hancock began chuckling. “Where one Lee goes, the other follows anyway, Fahrenheit.”

The tension was cut; Evelyn sat back, looking for all the world like a self-satisfied cat.  Fahrenheit’s posture fell back a little, her face pulling on the mask that promised hell.  

He sighed. “Don’t look like that, Fahr.  It’s my fault.  My ass’s been burning a hole in this chair for so long, I left an opening.  Got so used to having people doin’ all the heavy lifting, someone was bound to come along and make me pay out for real.”

Hancock pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket, rifling through them.

“Although,” he continued. “I never woulda expected the kick in the ass to come in such a lovely package.”

He winked at Evelyn as he unlocked a drawer in his desk.  She smiled and watched as he shifted through some papers, pulling out a couple.  He laid them on top of the desk.  Evelyn reached for them, but he put a firm palm down on the contracts.  He met her eyes.

“Before I give these to you,” Hancock said slowly. “I gotta condition.  What do the guys these apply to think about this?”

For the first time since he met her, Hancock watched as Evelyn’s confidence flickered.  She blinked, and it was just a fleeting moment, but it had been there.  He was sure of it.  She sat back, and he could see the mental walls realigning behind her eyes.

“The Lees and Six-Fingers are on board.  Hiraj is on the fence,” she said, pulling her chin up.

Hancock paused, then pulled his palm off the contracts.  Evelyn made no move to touch them, meeting his eyes instead.  Fahrenheit still stood, hovering, in the background with her perpetual frown.

He shrugged. “I got no hard feelings if they wanna leave.  Or against you for convincing them.  Business is business.  But I do got a bit of a problem with going over someone’s head, deciding for them who they work for.  Goes against my principles.  Everyone living their own life, their own way.  Ya feel me?”

He’d really hit her composure in a tender spot; Evelyn swallowed, her mouth tight and her eyes wavering.  Judging by her reaction, it must have been an old sore of hers.  People like her, people that knew how to take charge and make shit happen -- they tended to gather people.  She was the general of the Minutemen.  She had _beaucoup_ settlements, and by the rumours, stakes in Diamond City, the Railroad, etcetera etcetera.  All those people you gotta care for, and sometimes the individuals got lost in the crowd.  First you let a few things slide, and the next thing you know, you’re a fuckin’ tyrant.  Not like he couldn’t relate, though.  He had to work every day to keep himself from turning back into a McDonough.

Hancock tried to gentle his rasp. “Look, not trying to bring you down, sister.  I hear my own rumours about you out there.  And I know you’re bustin’ ass to give good folks a chance to survive.  And I know how it goes.  Heavy is the head that wears the crown, right?  Just watch out for yourself.  Don’t give people reason to justify tearing you down.  And, look -- I’ll have a chat with Hiraj.  Smooth out the transfer.”

Evelyn stared at him like she wasn’t quite sure what face to wear.  The woman was prideful and vain; she was fun when she was struttin’ around, a challenge in her every move.  But he got a little real with her, and she turned surprisingly soft.  And didn’t it make his chest tighten pleasantly to see her beautiful face go all gentle and even a touch vulnerable.  She was a good one.

Hancock pushed the contracts across the desk towards her.  Evelyn took them, folding them into an inner pocket at her jumpsuit’s chest, using the action to recompose herself.

“I appreciate it,” she said, smiling.

He was feeling all warm and fuzzy from their heart-to-heart, so the return of her usual toothy smile caught him a little off guard.  It reheated that perpetual flame low in his gut that seemed a given whenever she was around.

Hancock coughed. “Just trying to butter you up.  ‘Cause I got my own proposition for you.  I need to take a walk.  This thing we had goin’ for a while?  It was-- _tantalizing_ , but a few years ago I’da been right beside you, scheming and cleaning up filth.  I need to get a grip on what really matters again.  Live free.  Sharpen the ol’ edge.  And you?  You’re the right kind of trouble I wanna run with.”

“Oh, for--” Fahrenheit sighed.  A sigh of resignation more than anger, though.  She must’ve known this was coming.  It wasn’t the first time he’d walked out of Goodneighbor, and it wouldn’t be the last.  He’d been restless, getting on his bodyguard’s last nerve.  But she’d be fine; the whole town would be fine with her to take care of it.  Fahrenheit just shook her head at him.

Evelyn didn’t reply immediately, though.  She was studying him, and not in the way he was hoping for.  He’d been hoping she’d jump at the chance to kick around the Commonwealth with him, (and maybe act on all this flirting they’d been doing) so it made his stomach drop for her to just silently look at him like that.  Had he read the signals wrong?  Yeah, he was a ghoul, but she never cared before.  And he had that whole devilish charm, that _je ne sai quoi_ shit.  Evelyn finally looked away, and ground out her cigarette in his ashtray.

“Fahrenheit, mind if I have a private chat with the mayor?” she said, looking up at the other woman.

Shit, _the mayor_ , not even ‘Hancock’?  He wasn’t going to like whatever was coming.  He steeled himself for rejection, for the gentle let down, and mentally prepared a ‘no hard feelings’ grin.  Some line about ‘don’t sweat it’ and ‘can’t blame a guy for trying.’

Fahrenheit gave him an ‘I told you so’ look, and left, pulling the doors shut behind her.

Evelyn stared down at her thigh for a moment, idly smoothing out the olive material over her legs.  Then she stood and walked around to his side of the desk.  She stopped beside him, and he turned to her, smelling a soft waft of a recent bath with that distinctively settler-made lye soap that always lingered, the sweat she’d worked up walking from wherever she’d been in the day’s heat, and tobacco.  Evelyn leaned back against the edge of his desk, looking down at him.  And he had a good vantage to get a better look at her angles, to take stock of the exact shade of the rich gold of her skin.  He’d have to tuck such details away for later, if he was right about where this was going.

“Hancock, I’ve got baggage,” Evelyn finally said, her expression soft yet unapologetic.

His brow wrinkled. “Who doesn’t?”

She shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

She exhaled and rubbed her temple. “Or I guess it isn’t, really.  Look-- I lost my husband not too long ago.  And my son is missing.  Nick Valentine is helping me look for him.  I‘ll tell you more later, but let’s just leave it at that for now.  I want to suss out this thing between us before we go any further.  I know we’ve been flirting, and I’m sorry if I’ve led you on.  And I don’t want to say no completely, but only if…”

Evelyn turned to look him in the eye. “If you want to fuck, I’m good for it.  But I can’t give you anything more than a physical relationship right now.  Maybe not ever.  If that’s not your thing, then I’d rather have your friendship than ruin this with sex.”

Well, he wasn’t expecting _that_.

Hancock leaned back, looking at her.  Her eyes were deep and serious.  The smirks were gone, the playful glint evaporated.  He would never have guessed that she’d lost her family recently, but maybe she was just better than most at shielding her pain from prying eyes.  What she was asking for -- sex without strings, without pressure -- well, he was no stranger to such arrangements.  It was about all he’d had since becoming a ghoul and Goodneighbor’s mayor.  It was hard to be free with your feelings when everyone had their eyes on your chems, your caps, your power.

And, yeah, maybe deep down in that part of him that was shameless and greedy he’d been hoping for something else with Evelyn.  She didn’t get high, she had her own caps and power.  And they had chemistry:  they fed off each other’s confidence, drinking together was a damn good time, and even sober, just talking was fucking fun.  And he’d just learned that her honest side, the side that could be vulnerable and soft, made his stomach flip pleasantly.  

To tell the truth, he’d been having more than just sexual fantasies of late; idle thoughts about getting her to come around to him, to like him genuinely.  Getting to know the woman underneath the glib tongue and the scheming.  Becoming more than just a gun at her six, a drinking partner.  Something intimate.  And he would’ve waited for it before making a real move.  Maybe he woulda waited a good, long time too.  But her shutting down that avenue was -- _not_ a pleasant feeling.

So, suppose he took her up on her offer.  Maybe he’d just keep getting his hopes up, and then resenting her when she did just what she’d said from the beginning:  keep it physical only, and never return whatever his infatuation grew into later on.  He’d hate her, and, like she said, ruin their friendship.

Hancock rubbed his neck, trying to put off his answer.

“You lost your husband recently and you still want to…?” he asked quietly. “Not trying to imply anything, just, ya know…”

Evelyn shook her head. “No.  Look, Nate and I weren’t strictly monogamous.  Even before, if we wanted a different partner, as long as the rules were followed…” She shrugged, looking off somewhere distant. “But that was sex.  When it came to our emotions, it was just us.  Me and him.”

She swallowed and looked down.  She wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore. “Look, I’m lonely.  And it’s terrible of me, I’m terrible to ask you to satisfy my loneliness.  I just--”  Making a frustrated sound, she met his gaze again. “Like I said, if you want to fuck, we can.  If we don’t, then I’d be glad of your friendship.  But if we do, don’t ask me to call you something special.  Because I can’t.”

Evelyn’s voice wavered, and her eyes burned. “I just can’t.”

And the _look_ she gave him -- sad and lost and lovely and hard and awful.  Just awful to look at.  He couldn’t stand it.  So he stood and kissed her.

He stood, and standing this close, the heat of their breaths mingling in the gap between them, he found they were the same height.  So he was staring right into her eyes when he closed on her, pulling her toward him with a single hand on her waist.  The quiet rhythm of her breathing rose to a roar in his ears, its steady theme unfolding into a quicker variation as he pressed his weight into her, tilting her head back with his lips.

He didn’t have much to kiss with.  Except for the hand that was firmly holding the small of her back, and the other hand that was brushing curls away from her cheek to lightly touch the skin there.  And his thin lips that met hers, though not full by any means, certainly more pronounced than his.  As much as he’d been wanting to, he didn’t try to shove his tongue down her throat.  But he didn’t let this kiss exist as a whisper, some half-assed, trailing question for her question.

He gave her his answer without a trace of hesitation.  His hands and his lips firm.  It was probably a bad idea, and maybe there’d be regret later.  But he wasn’t the ponderous type.  A beautiful, intelligent, thrilling woman wanted him.  Needed a little bit of his time and his warmth.  Who the fuck knew why it had to be _him_ specifically.  She was a wet dream made flesh, and this no-strings thing was a crazy fantasy.  She coulda had anyone, but she was here -- right here, right now -- looking at him.

What was there to think about?

For a moment -- a half-moment, a small sliver of a beat -- Evelyn stood rigid against his hand and his body.  A flicker in her eyes, open and watching him, and then she pulled him deeper into the kiss with her tongue.  Not wasting time second-guessing him or the situation; seems like she wasn’t the ponderous type either.  At least when it came to this.  When it came to running her tongue along his and pulling his hips onto hers.

“Hel _-lo_ ,” she said, smiling against his mouth.

He was half-hard already, so he tugged her forward with the hand on her back and ground his bulge into her groin, the friction from the clothes maddening.  He was pleased that she was getting some of that old fire back in her smirk.

“What can I say?  I’ve been seduced,” Hancock said, low and raspy.

“You didn’t put up much resistance,” Evelyn said.  Her fingers peeled back his coat, as she leaned in and whispered into his ear, “Slut.”

Chuckling to cover his shiver from her breath in his ear, he pried his arms from his sleeves.  Freed, he retook the small of her back with a firmer clasp, fingers indenting her flesh.  Already leaning against the desk, he pushed her with his mouth on her neck until she was bent further back.  As his lips pressed and his tongue swirled and his teeth scraped, he tasted the smoke and nicotine of her, the salt and the heat.  She exhaled as he worked her neck, the sound going low into her chest and falling further, vibrations running into his quickly hardening dick.

He pushed until she bent backwards over the desk, supporting herself with her bent arms and looking up at him.  Sweat beading at her temples, her eyes were deep and dark, lazy and promising.  Her mouth was slightly open.  She was reposed, relaxed, but he could feel a hidden intensity in her muscles.  The pause in the hunt, the adjustment in aim and the inhaled breath before the trigger was squeezed.  So he did what he’d been dying to since he first saw her.  He pulled down the zipper of her jumpsuit.

Jesus, that _zzzzzzzzzzz_ -sound was even better than he’d imagined, and the little metal zipper came down like hot butter.  The army-green material parted, and out came the collared shirt fitted around her tits and her waist.  The zipper when further, all the way home to where it ended at her crotch.  He got a nice look at lacy black unmentionables.

Her chest rising and falling, Evelyn’s eyes were locked on his face when he finally looked up.  She smiled.  Then, she shrugged out of the sleeves of the jumpsuit.  Taking her precious time, she leaned back on his desk and unbuttoned her shirt, holding his gaze with her own.  One button, two buttons, three -- she watched him watching her.  Until the task was finally finished, and a generous expanse of her perfect amber skin was there for his perusal.

She tilted her head back, baring her flushed neck and daring him with narrow eyes.

Fuck that.  Literally.

With a deft flick of his hands, Hancock flipped her over onto her stomach.  She made a surprised, amused little gasp that tickled his gonads, and he grinned as he shoved the jumpsuit out of the way.  As it fell to her ankles, he found himself pushed back a few inches by some clever twist of her foot.  He made a wounded little noise at the loss of contact; that pressure against her thigh had given some relief to the aching cock tenting his pants.  

But the sight of her was almost worth it; the suit down and those long, long legs revealed as more deliciously shaped than he’d dreamed.  Thighs and calves beautifully curved, an elegant equation, a perfect chem trip.  Those legs rose and rose until they met pert asscheeks framed by black panties, the elastic of ‘em leaving an indent.  Bent over his desk, she curved her back and parted her legs until her ass shifted higher and her crotch was on display for him.  Evelyn stared at him over her shoulder.  Fuck.

Hancock shoved back against her.  He ground against her, creating friction between his dick and her crotch.  He groaned; he could feel the heat of her through their clothes.  Using his weight, such as it was, he pressed his body down on her as he dry-humped.  Fuck, it felt fucking great.  And he let her know with a low rumble in her ear.  He squeezed his hands underneath her, palming upward, letting her get a good feel of his rad-gnarled skin, and pulled a tit from her bra.  Her tits were indeed nothing to sneeze at, maybe not large, but fitting his hand like a glove.  He kneaded her breast and she softly moaned into the wood of his desk.

“You ever had a ghoul before?” Hancock rasped in her ear, tweaking her nipple.

Evelyn laughed, breathy and heated. “No.  Go ahead, Hancock.  Pop my cherry.”

He groaned, deep and humming, at her words and at how she pushed her ass up against him, meeting his grinding, chafing erection.  Goddammit.  As usual, she was running circles around him, enjoying his every reaction.  Woman was a damn menace to society.  He shoved her hair away and bit into her neck, licking her hot flesh with his hot tongue.  His hand freed her other tit, his other hand roaming down her stomach.  He pulled her earlobe between his teeth.

“Smoothskins usually like the _texture_ , ya know?” Hancock said, low and deep.  

He let his roaming, rough and ridged, hand tease at the edge of her panties, pulling at the lace, until he finally slipped his fingers underneath the fabric.  She made an excited inhalation, her hands holding the edge of the desk tightening, knuckles going pale.  He grinned against her jaw as his fingers slid along the dripping wetness of her.  His index and middle fingers rubbed up and down her for a while, parting her.  And he enjoyed the little moderations in her breathing and her soft, unsated humming.  Finally, he slipped a finger in, curling and pressing, as his thumb flicked her clit.  Underneath him, she arched, tensing.

“So how is it?” Hancock asked, rubbing circles with his thumb. “How’s the texture?”

He put in a second finger, thrusting and looking for that spot.  He found it, judging by the way she shuddered against him.  Relaxing, she laid her head down and looked at him with cloudy eyes.  Her hand beside her head disappeared.  And before he knew what she was doing, she had clasped onto the wrist of his hand working her sex.  Her fingers manipulated his thumb to press down on her clit, moving his hand to rub and thrust faster.  She groaned, eyelids fluttering and her body pressing back to milk more pleasure from his hand.

“How do you think I like the texture?” Evelyn gasped, smirking.

A fucking menace, goddam her, _goddam her_.

The hot, darkening room echoed with Hancock’s moan.  He couldn’t take it anymore.  Pulling his hand from her tit, he made quick work of his flag-belt and let his pants fall.  His poor dick sprang free, blessedly unconstrained by tight cloth.  He pressed it against her thigh near her cunt, letting her know just what he’d come equipped with.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Hancock growled loudly.  Practically shouted.  Fuck it if the guards outside heard.  They heard enough of him when he rubbed it out, so let ‘em hear this.

“Be my guest,” she smiled, releasing his hand.

He lifted himself on one hand, leveraging against the desk.  With the other, he pushed down the black lace, and rubbed the head of his wet cock against her slickness.  She stilled, and he pushed forward, entering her.  Finally, jesus fucking christ.  Finally.  Hancock made a deep, vibrating sound that would definitely be heard outside as he filled her, inch by inch.   _Motherfucker_ , but it felt good.

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” Hancock said. “That’s good.  Shit.”

Evelyn panted underneath him, holding still and gripping the edge of the desk.  Sweat beaded in the small of her back, falling down that triangle between her asscheeks, past her asshole, and stopping where he had his dick in her.  Goddam.  He braced himself on top of the desk, hovering over her and inhaling the smell of their sweat and their arousal and her perpetual nicotine scent.

“Fuck, what are you waiting for?” Evelyn finally snapped.

Hancock smirked. “The written invitation, toots.”

He pulled back, and snapped back in with force.  And he fuckin’ went to town on her.

The desk popped and shuddered beneath them, squeaking as it moved on the floorboards with every thrust.  The squeaks increased in volume and pace, becoming comical.  Hancock would’ve laughed, but he was busy getting off.  It was better than chems.  ‘Course, he always said that _in media res_ of sex, and then he always said that chems were a John Hancock’s best friend in the midst of a jet plume.  He was a simple man, really.  Why worry about tomorrow when you were balls-deep in mind-numbing heat and slickness, and pleasure was overriding every inch of you?

Hancock swore as Evelyn pushed against the top of the desk, shoving to meet the snaps of his hips with her own snaps of her ass.  God, the sound.  He swore, but then he’d been swearing up a damn rad storm for a while now.  Some found it offputting -- that he was always so loud, heedless of the time or place -- but Evelyn seemed more concerned about reaching around for herself.  Hancock blinked and, pulling up to grip her by the hips, fumbled down to help rub her clit.  Their fingers tangled in a confused mess.

Still, he got her going good, his rough fingers and rough cock working her into a moaning intensity.  Eventually, after much desk squeaking, she came.  She arched, knuckles white and nails dragging, as she clenched around him.  Her mouth was open, wordless and helpless, as her body trembled with release.  Hancock fingered her until she pulled through it, reaching underneath her to support her weight.  He buried his face into her neck and her hair, his exposed cartilage catching the salt of her sweat.  He kept up his furious pace, crazed by the way she pulled him in and tightened mercilessly.  Finally undone, he pulled out and came instantly, leaving no time to catch his viscous cum spurting on the floor and on their boots.  He gripped himself until he was finally done.

They breathed, heavy and silent, for a moment.  He groaned softly as he supported himself against her, their skin sticky and hot where they met.  His ruffled shirt was clinging in a way that itched.  Evelyn finally pushed up, pulling damp hair out of her face and off her neck.  Jesus.  She really was beautiful; flush and tan and satisfied.  Hancock got off her, sitting down in his chair to get a better look.  She turned around, leaning back against his desk with the ass he’d just pounded on.  She pulled his cigarettes and lighter sitting on the desk toward her.

Evelyn blew smoke, eyeing him.  And there she was again: the composed, sly woman who could look superior even with her clothes wallowing around her ankles, her lower half completely exposed (letting him see just how neat the trim on her pussy was).  She smoked, arms tucked underneath the mess her bra had become, breasts half-covered by her shirt.  She smirked at him.  God, where did they make them like that?

“So that was a yes, then?” Evelyn teased. “Am I still the right kind of trouble you want to run with?”

He didn’t know how much clearer he could have been.  What lay underneath that surface of hers was some heavy shit.  Shit she didn’t want him anywhere near, apparently.  He couldn’t find it in him to be too insulted, though, but that might be the afterglow talkin’.  This _arrangement_ she offered?  Yeah, it wasn’t exactly what he’d been looking for, but if this was a bad idea, why the fuck did it feel so good?  He was no stranger to coming down off a spectacular high, and yeah it could be rough.  But there was always another high afterward.  There was always another day.

“Only if you call me your ride of choice.”

She laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaat, an update on the very next day? How unlike me. I _may_ be planning a sequel/series to see where these two go, so there's that. Anyway, thanks for reading!


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